On the last page, I write a description of the burning of my autobiography, then bundle up the manuscript and walk toward the fire.
Ed found a job with a fish farm after his release. Now he feeds and cleans, and each day quietly lets one or two slip away into the bay.
The new heart is like an exotic animal left to her by a stranger. She keeps it caged in her ribs, feeds it pills, hopes it will not attack.
Jun encoded his life’s story into adenine, cytosine, guanine, and thymine, grafting it onto a strand of influenza DNA. It went viral.
Nothing serious, said the doctor. A microscopic worm under each of the blisters. They’d die in her skin. She could continue living in it.
He climbs the outcrop barefoot, cut by rock and scrub. Below, the tide has pulled out much too far, a deep breath preparing to exhale.
In her fever she’d seen a man in the room; a giant, threatening to smother her. Jim told her she’d been crying. “I saw my father,” she said.
We treated the wounds to our faces with bandages and rubbing alcohol, and the wounds to our friendship with rough words and whisky.
You would’ve quit until the bastard offered the promotion, the raise. He laid it out before you, a baited hook. And desperate, you took it.
In the hospice, Miles began to write one final song in his head. It was his swan song. It was perfect. And no one would ever hear it.